


Most Foul

by one_more_offbeat_anthem



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1930s, Alternate Universe - Human, Murder Mystery, Secret Identity, Secret Relationship, Trains, based on a book, murder on the orient express-inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:27:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29355681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_more_offbeat_anthem/pseuds/one_more_offbeat_anthem
Summary: The year is 1934, and renowned detective Victor Henriksen is taking a well-earned break, compliments of the Orient Express. He’s joined on the train by a curious cast of characters: army doctor Castiel Novak, divorcee Mary Campbell, the pious Amara Miller, French professor Benjamin Lafitte, socialite Ellen Harvelle and her daughter Joanna, infamous gangster Chuck MacIntire, along his secretary Jonathan “Jack” Kline and valet Kevin Tran, teacher Dean Winchester, car salesman Asher Lindberg, and diplomats William and Angela Webb.Things become more curious when one of the passengers is found stabbed to death in their sleeping compartment on the train, and then the train is halted by an avalanche. Thus launches a time-sensitive whodunnit, where anyone could be the killer.Only the further Henriksen dives in to the case, the more interesting coincidences and instances he discovers: a secret relationship, a last name change, potential hidden identities, and, through it all, constant call-backs to the case of Colonel Sam Leahy and his wife Eileen, whose young daughter was kidnapped and murdered years ago….
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 25
Kudos: 69





	1. The Boarding Party and the Request

**Author's Note:**

> hi-ho, folks! I am SO excited to share this fic. I love Agatha Christie (the title of this story is a play on another book of hers, _Mrs McGinty's Dead_ , which was made into a movie called _Murder Most Foul_ ). this fic will update every Monday and Thursday until all the chapters are up--I've almost finished writing it, so we should be good to go!
> 
> I haven't really utilized victor henriksen as a character before, so it was fun to scope him out. he goes by "henriksen" in this fic because Hercules Poirot in the og material goes generally by just Poirot :) 
> 
> also, if you've read/seen _Murder on the Orient Express_ , 1) please don't spoil how it ends! and 2) I have changed up a few things :) I also used the script for the 2017 film as a reference, if you're interested. 
> 
> let's get into it!

A ship, in Jerusalem, daytime, bound for Istanbul. On it, a crew, and three men. At the stern of the ship, two men stood close together--one in a nice, tailored suit, with a shock of dark hair and piercing blue eyes. The other in a brown pair of slacks and a waistcoat, his sleeves rolled up, running a hand through his short, tawny hair. The blue-eyed man leaned over, whispering something in the other man’s ear. His lips brushed skin, their faces close together. The blue-eyed man caught the eye of the man standing in the boat’s bow, in a long, black woolen coat and a bowler hat, and pulled away from the lighter-haired man suddenly.

The two men at the stern were named Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester. The man in the coat was Detective Victor Henriksen. They did not all know each other, but they soon would. 

_\------------------------------------_

A well-deserved week in Turkish baths, roaming the streets of Istanbul, was what world-renowned Detective Victor Henriksen wanted more than anything. He had just solved a case in Jerusalem involving stolen religious relics, had spent months roaming the Middle East, solving case after case, and now he wanted a rest.

Alas, that was never going to happen. 

Instead, he was attempting to have a conversation with his good friend Bouc, who was currently far more interested in the prostitute he had an arm wrapped around. 

“I cannot believe,” Henriksen said, “That the only person I know in this country is uninterested in talking to me.”

“If you’ll just find us a room where this lady and I can finish our private argument,” Bouc said with an impish grin--he was nearly forty, but kept his boyish charms, and would flirt with a drainpipe if given the chance.

“I will do no such thing. You called me into the restaurant to chat, you best tell me what you want out of me.” 

Henriksen’s voice was apparently firm enough, because Bouc finally disentangled himself from his lover. “I have come to offer you a place on the Orient Express. I have been managing the train for my uncle, and we leave tomorrow. It’s a lovely train--”

“Bouc, like I have told you, I intend to relax and take my holiday.”

Bouc sighed, but before he could get out a retort, a man came up to Henriksen with a piece of paper--a telegram. “Are you Detective Henriksen?” the man asked. 

Henriksen nodded, taking the proffered slip of paper. His eyes roved over the words, and he let out a long sigh before folding it up and stuffing it into his pocket. “Well, Bouc,” Henriksen said, “Looks like you’ll get your wish--I need to travel.” 

“And the Orient Express is the best way to do it!” 

_\------------------------------------_

The walk to the train took Henriksen past quite a few people, some that would soon be his fellow passengers, although he did not know that as of yet.

In front of the ticket stand, car salesman Asher Lindberg pressed a fat wad of bills into the porter’s hand as a tip. Two young men in ill-fitting suits--Jonathan Kline and Kevin Tran, both in the employ of a certain Chuck MacIntire--lugged suitcases across the station. 

Through the hustle and bustle of the station, diplomats William and Angela Webb hid their faces from flashbulbs, Angela’s grip on William’s arm soft yet firm. 

Inside the train, away from the preparations on the platform, cooks taste-tested dishes, bartenders checked liquor supplies, and, there--at the front of the train, the conductor, Lucas Kormos, ensured that the train was ready to leave. 

Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak arrived on the platform together--one a teacher, the other a doctor. Not a few yards behind them, in a fine silk dress, the retired actress and divorcee Mary Campbell, still just as beautiful now as she was at the height of her fame. 

Then, with two little dogs and a personal greeting from the conductor, socialite Ellen Harvelle and her daughter Joanna. The eyes of many men followed Joanna, with her well-cut, stylish dress and bouncing blonde curls, but she paid them no mind. Stumbling onto the train after them--French professor Benjamin LaFitte, with a bulging suitcase. And then the final passenger, besides Henriksen--the pious Amara Miller, in clothes that covered her whole body, holding a rosary and a small carpet bag.

Henriksen boarded the Orient Express only a few moments later--not oblivious of these other passengers, but unaware of who, exactly, they were, until, as Bouc showed him to his berth, he ran smack into Mary, who offered him a glowing smile. 

“My apologies, ma’am,” Henriksen said, “I mean no disrespect.”

“You could try to mean a little.” Mary winked at him and walked off, leaving Henriksen puzzled, but his attention was soon occupied by the other person in his berth--a young-looking blonde man with a round face. 

“Ah,” Bouc said cheerfully, “Jonathan Kline. I’m sure the two of you will get along famously over the course of our journey.” With that, he left Jonathan and Henriksen alone.

“You can call me Jack,” the young man said after a pause. “I was expecting to have this car to myself.”

“Trust me,” Henriksen said drily, “I did not plan to share a car with anyone on this journey.” 

_\------------------------------------_

The train was silent--it was the dead of night. 

Lucas sat in the front of the train, watching the instruments carefully. 

Mary was asleep with an eye mask and silk pajamas on. A bottle of lavender perfume sat on the tiny table in her car.

Henriksen and Jack slept silently, with the younger man on the top bunk.

Joanna tossed and turned to the sounds of her mother, Ellen, snoring.

William and Angela slept fitfully, for William often got nightmares, but Angela was always there to soothe them.

Castiel and Dean had rented a car with two bunks, had told the others they were old friends, but in the car, they slept in the same bunk, the sheets sliding off their intertwined bodies, exposing them. 

Benjamin had a book open on his chest, the light in his car still on, but he was fast asleep. The same went for his roommate, Kevin. 

Bouc had his own car and a fifth of gin, but was similarly accidentally asleep.

Amara was whispering fervent prayers to herself in her car.

Chuck slept with a snuffling snore and a ground-out cigarette on the table next to his bed. 

The Orient Express chugged on through the night. 

_\------------------------------------_

The first evening of the Orient Express’ journey passed without much fanfare. Henriksen went right to sleep, and woke up promptly at seven am when Lucas Kormos brought him breakfast, which also woke Jack up. Jack turned out to be a good roommate, although he was a bit nervous and skittish, information Henriksen filed away for future reference, if necessary. Indeed, nothing seemed amiss, even when Henriksen eventually joined the rest of the passengers for lunch in the dining car, where conversation was already swirling. 

Dean Winchester and Amara Miller were engrossed in conversation, although it did not seem to be going well. Castiel Novak sat at Dean’s side, occasionally placing a hand on the other man’s shoulder or reaching across him-- _curious,_ Henriksen thought, _most curious._

He nodded to Jack, and rejected his employer’s offer of lunch. Chuck MacIntire did not seem like the sort of man that Henriksen hoped to tangle with on his journey--and so he seated himself with Bouc. 

“I see the finest meals in Europe are had on the train running through it, rather than any city in particular,” Henriksen noted, his eyes roving over the menu.

“Kormos does see to everything,” Bouc noted. “But what I am more interested in is the potential for new...relationships.”

“With your particular interests,” Henriksen sighed, “You shall amount to nothing.”

“Oh, I rather hope so.” 

Henriksen heard the other guests talk--Benjamin was droning on about some social theory or another, while Ellen and Joanna both ordered complicated dishes, and Kevin came to join Jack and Chuck. William and Angela were nowhere to be seen, and the same for Mary, who Henriksen had run into the previous evening. For that, he was most grateful--she had unsettled him. 

The day then passed in silence again, until Henriksen was taking a midafternoon coffee in the dining car, by the window, with a novel laid out in front of him. He did not look up when he heard the chair opposite him move, nor when the man who had settled into it spoke. 

“So I hear you’re a detective,” Chuck said.

Henriksen nodded once.

“Protector of the innocents, they say.”

Now Henriksen glanced up. “And you, Mr. MacIntire, are innocent?”

“I work in the art trade, and while I’ve been quite successful...I’ve gotten into a spot of trouble, and I’ve received some threatening letters. I fear for my life, Detective. I’d like to hire you to watch my back till I can get someplace safe. Easy money for you, peace of mind for me.”

Henriksen considered Chuck’s face--dark curls, beard, clothes that reeked of new, ill-gotten money, and the pearl-encrusted pistol he was now laying on the table.

“You would like a bodyguard?” Henriksen asked. 

“Yes.”

“I understand.”

“Great!”

Henriksen turned a page in his book. “And I refuse.”

“You--I’ll pay you,” Chuck said, “Ten thousand for the whole journey. That’s good money right there.”

“I am aware. I am also aware of how it is _bad_ money.” Henriksen gave up on his book and snapped it shut.

“Detective, people are out to get me!”

“Then you need thugs, not a detective. Good day.”

As Henriksen strode down the train back to the sleeping car he was sharing with Jack, he wondered how much credence Chuck’s claims had. 

(Not much, he hoped.)

_\------------------------------------_

Nighttime again. The Orient Express traveled through the snow-capped mountains as a storm raged. At the top of the mountains--lightning, thunder. The mountain shook, quivered, and then--

Avalanche.

Ice, snow, and rock went careening down the mountain, ramming into the train, lodging onto the track--halting the express in its path. Inside the train, dishes broke, glasses rattled, people awoke. 

Henriksen had never really fallen asleep, but he bolted upright as the train shook. In the bunk above him, Jack let out a surprised noise. 

Dean and Castiel scrambled out of their shared bed for their clothes. 

Angela clung to her husband William’s arm as he confused the avalanche with something else. 

Amara prayed fervently. 

Ellen complained to Joanna about “whatever all that racket was.” 

Kevin and Benjamin exchanged concerned glances, and Benjamin ventured out into the hall, sliding on his wire-rimmed glasses as he went. 

Mary glanced out her cabin door and then chose to go back to bed.

Bouc and Lucas walked down the length of the train--all was well. 

Besides the fact that they were now trapped in the mountains.


	2. What the Avalanche Left Behind

Henriksen did not sleep well after the avalanche. 

After tossing and turning for a while, drifting off and then waking once more, he chose to read. He had only gotten to the good part of his book when there was a loud groan through the compartment wall--the wall that had Chuck’s room on the other side.

Henriksen sighed, put down his book, and climbed out of his bunk, opening his compartment’s door and sticking his head out. There was Lucas, knocking on Chuck’s door.

“Mr. MacIntire?” Lucas called, “Are you alright?” There was no answer.

He knocked again.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Chuck grumbled through the door.

“Thank you, sir,” Lucas intoned, and then a bell rang down the train’s corridor, and he turned to follow it. 

Henriksen sighed and returned to bed, glancing at his watch as he did so--12:37 am. He was never going to get any sleep.

More noises, a bell ringing, repeatedly. Henriksen sighed and rang his bell. Perhaps Lucas could inform him of who was making all the racket. 

“It’s Mary--Ms. Campbell,” Lucas said when he came to the door of Henriksen and Jack’s compartment. “My apologies.”

“Hm.” Henriksen shut the door, was about to climb into bed once more, when there was a thump, and, upon sticking his head out, he noticed a figure in a red kimono running down the hall.

Peculiar.

But nothing seemed amiss. 

(What Henriksen did not notice as he went to bed was that Jack was no longer in their compartment.) 

_ \------------------------------------ _

In the dining car for breakfast, things were in full swing once again, despite the fact that Henriksen had not yet arrived. Bouc was, for once, actually doing work--explaining to a  _ very  _ disgruntled Ellen Harvelle why the train could not move.

“Conductor Kormos,” Bouc said, “Has ascertained that, due to an avalanche, the Orient Express is unable to go forward. The engine is stuck. However, when we do not pass the next checkpoint station by the time we are supposed to, a team will be sent to find us--and I am certain they will dig us out.”

“But that could take days!” Ellen complained.

“Exactly!” Mary added. “This was already bad enough, with a strange man in my room last night, and now we’re  _ stuck  _ here--”

“Worry not, madame.” Bouc tried to sound soothing. “We have all the food, drink, and accommodations we will need, and we will get the train moving again as soon as possible. In the meantime, do try to enjoy all the express has to offer.” 

“Some things,” Amara said solemnly to those assembled, “Are God’s will.”

No one had a good response for that.

Kevin Tran was not in the dining car with the others--instead, he was bringing Chuck MacIntire’s breakfast to him on a tray. The only issue was that Chuck was not answering his compartment’s door. 

Henriksen heard the knocking and poked his head out. “May I try?” he asked Kevin. The young man nodded,and Henriksen raised his fist, pounding once, twice, on the door. “Mr. MacIntire? Chuck?”

Still no answer.

Henriksen had a bad feeling about this.

He knelt to the floor, still in his pajamas, and felt underneath it. Cold air. As if a window had been broken. 

“Kevin,” Henriksen said, “Bring Bouc. And Dr. Novak. Immediately.” 

Kevin nodded and hastily retreated, coming back minutes later. 

“Bouc,” Henriksen said, “I need your help breaking down this door.”

(Henriksen missed a glance exchanged between Castiel and Kevin.) 

The door fell easily, and cold air rushed out of the room, revealing, as Henriksen had suspected, a broken window and snow spilling in. Chuck was laying on the bed, halfway covered by a sheet. Henriksen walked forwards and carefully lifted it, revealing a mess of arterial spray, and blood, blood everywhere--everywhere except  _ inside  _ Chuck, who was very much dead. 

Chuck had been stabbed to death.

Henriksen felt his stomach turn over, and he gestured frantically to Castiel. “Dr. Novak, do not touch the body, but please--tell me what you know.”

Castiel came, stood over Chuck’s form with a studious eye. After a few moments of consideration, he said, “I do not believe this was a suicide. He was stabbed. A long bladed knife, straight edge, tapering to 2.3 inches. I count twelve wounds. Three mortal, two breaking clear through belts of bone and muscle, the rest shallow.”

“Was the attacker right or left handed?” Henriksen asked. 

“That’s the curious thing, Detective.” Castiel tilted his head. “The wounds are all at random, as if the attacker was stabbing blind.”

“Or trying to confuse the police. Time of death, Doctor?”

“I would estimate between midnight and two in the morning.”

“But--” Bouc sputtered (Henriksen had sort of forgotten he was there), “That’s impossible! Lucas and I both checked everything ourselves, no one was out at that time--or in his compartment.”

“Then,” Henriksen said grimly, “It appears that we have quite the mystery on our hands. Bouc, I hope you have a good coat.”

_ \------------------------------------ _

It became immediately apparent why Bouc needed a good coat, because Henriksen wanted to inspect the outside of the train. Henriksen let his gaze trail down the length of the train--storage, storage, empty sleeper, sleeper, salon, dining, kitchen, coal, engine--before turning to Lucas Kormos, who had come outside with them.

“You’re sure the doors between the sleeper cars were locked at night?” he asked Lucas.

“Absolutely,” Lucas replied. “I did it myself.” He held up his pass key, allowing him to go anywhere in the train, which was attached to his belt by a chain.

“And,” Bouc added, “We already searched under the train. No one is hiding there.”

“Which,” Henriksen said, “Limits us to the car that Chuck was sleeping in. And I find it doubtful that we had a killer who escaped through the open window--for there were no tracks in the snow. Bouc, you will assist me with determining who the killer is, as you were the only passenger sleeping in another car.”

As the three of them tramped through the snow back to the express, Henriksen continued talking. “I do not approve of murder. All crime requires an aberration of the natural inclinations. Everyday we meet people we know the world would be better without, yet we do not shoot them. To look into a man’s eyes as you snatch from him the ability to be is a rare thing indeed.” A pause. “I need to see all passengers’ passports and tickets. You will arrange for me to interview each of them. We will gather their evidence, then apply order and method until one culprit presents themselves.”

“As you wish,” Bouc said.

“In fact--” Henriksen stopped, turned. “Lucas, we can start with you?”

“Me?” Lucas seemed to quiver. 

“Of course. We can make it quick. May I see your passport?” Lucas nodded once, pulling it out of his pocket. Henriksen inspected it. “Lucas Kormos, of Greece. You never left the sleeper car last night?”

A shake of the head. 

“Did anyone else come through?”

Another shake, but this one accompanied by words. “No assassin could have moved through the car without me seeing him. And I have the only pass key--” Lucas clapped a hand over his mouth.

Henriksen kept walking, looking at the train, occasionally bending to inspect the wheels as he went. He turned back to Lucas. “You accepted quite a few calls last night, did you not?”

“Yes,” Lucas said. “From Ms. Campbell, and the Harvelles, and, of course, Mr. MacIntire. Otherwise, I was on watch all night.”

“And no one else came out?”

“One of the ladies went to the toilet at the end, a red kimono. Dragons. Oh, and you stuck your head out again, sir.”

“Thank you, Lucas. You can go now.”

Lucas scrambled into the train and Bouc turned to Henriksen. “You must be bent on ridding yourself of all the friends you have.”

“Oh, that was a painless interrogation. Come on, we have a whole train of suspects to terrorize.” 

_ \------------------------------------ _

“You’ve come with bad news, haven’t you?” Dean asked Bouc. All of the passengers had been assembled in the dining hall, and the teacher and tutor was the most astute.

“Unfortunately…” Bouc sighed, gathering himself. “There has been a death on the train. Mr. MacIntire. He appears to have been...murdered.”

There was a variety of reactions--stuttered prayer from Amara, a gasp from Joanna, a narrowing of the gaze from Castiel, and, from Jack, Chuck’s own assistant, a soft, “So they finally got him.”

“You know who killed him?” Henriksen turned his gaze to the young man, raising an eyebrow, and Jack nearly quivered under his gaze.

“N-no,” Jack said, “I just--he was getting threats. He said he told you about them.”

“Good god…” Ellen trailed off. “A murder? Here?” 

William and Angela Webb said nothing, just stared off into space.

“I told you,” Mary said indignantly, “There was a strange man in my room last night! And now a murder?” 

An explosion of conversation broke out, and Henriksen rapped the table with his fist. “As we are snowbound for the foreseeable future, I have, at Bouc’s request, elected to take on the case and find our criminal.”

“Why you?” Kevin asked.

“I am Detective Victor Henriksen. I have experience in these matters. I will speak to all of you in turn. The more you cooperate the sooner this will all be behind us. For the time being I must recommend outside of meals you remain in your compartments with the doors locked.”

“And make us like prisoners?” Ellen asked.

Henriksen steeled himself. “If there was a murder, Ms. Harvelle...then there was a murderer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the plot McThickens! thanks y'all for all the support on this fic so far--it was really just written for fun so I'm just vibing :) chapter three goes up on Thursday!


	3. The Questions Game

Henriksen first brought Jack with him to Chuck’s room to ensure, just to be safe, that the body was, in fact, Chuck MacIntire. The young man shuddered at the sight of his boss’ corpse.

Henriksen noticed. “Seeing Mr. MacIntire’s body disturbs you?”

“ _ Any _ body disturbs me, sir.” Jack gulped. 

“As his employee,” Henriksen led Jack out of the room, “Maybe you can tell me about Mr. MacIntire.”

“I was his...secretary. Translator? I booked things for him--train rides, boats, dinners, you name it, I was doing it for him. He worked in antiques. He had no qualification for it and no head for business, accounting, none of it. I took care of everything. I found most of his legitimate pieces to buy. Though sometimes he came up with items he ‘found’ himself.”

“You mean he forged?” Henriksen asked.

Jack shrugged.

“How did you meet?”

“We were at the same auction--he outbid me on some vases, and then told me he…” Jack fidgeted. “That he liked my style. And I liked that he had money. But he...wasn’t a great boss.”

“I suspected as much. When did you last see him?” Henriksen was fairly certain he knew the answer, since he and Jack had been sleeping in the same room, but he wanted to check. 

“About ten last night. He wanted to talk about our sales in Italy.”

“And what did you talk about?”

“Nothing much. I had to translate all the contracts--they were in Italian--and we just went over them. And then I came back to our berth.”

Henriksen nodded. That he knew. 

(He had forgotten that, sometime in the night, Jack had left. No--not forgotten. He had never noticed.)

“Did Chuck have any enemies? He told me he had been threatened,” Henriksen said.

“Oh, he got a few nasty letters, but I handled his correspondence...I have pieces of some of them.” Jack led Henriksen into their berth right next door to Chuck’s and grabbed his briefcase, taking out scraps of paper and showing them to Henriksen. They were largely cut out letters from newspapers and magazines arranged to make words. Amateur. 

Henriksen took a last look at the letters and then turned to look at Jack--he seemed so young, with his round face and swoop of blonde hair and wide eyes. “That’s all I need from you, Jack. If I have any more questions, I’ll let you know.” 

Jack nodded once and left their berth. 

_ \------------------------------- _

“So,” Bouc asked, sitting across from Henriksen at a table in the dining car, “Do you think young Jonathan Kline did it?”

“It’s too early to say,” Henriksen replied, “But I can’t see him stabbing someone, let alone stabbing someone twelve times.”

“So who do we interview next?”

“Mr. MacIntire himself. Come.” Henriksen stood up and led Bouc back to Chuck’s berth. “Let’s see if Dr. Novak gave us a factual account.”

“Oh, come on,” Bouc said, “He took an oath to be a doctor. He can’t lie.”

“No, he took an oath so he’s not  _ supposed  _ to lie.” Henriksen bent over the body. “Twelve stab wounds, patternless, just like he said. If Castiel Novak is guilty, he did not let it influence his medical analysis.” He noticed something bulging out of Chuck’s pocket--a watch, smashed at 1:15. 

“Time of death?” Bouc asked, spying the watch.

“Maybe,” Henriksen said, continuing his inspection. There was a gun under Chuck’s pillow--but he did not appear to have reached for it. He spied a coffee cup by the bed, picked it up, took a sniff.

“What’s in the cup?”

“Barbital.” Henriksen wrinkled his nose. “So he was drugged, as not to resist attack.” He noticed an ashtray on the table--within it, two cigarette butts and some paper ash. And there, a lady’s handkerchief on the floor, with a  _ C  _ embroidered on it. And a pipe cleaner on the floor.

“What are you thinking?” Bouc asked, hovering.

“I am thinking that...” Henriksen turned his attention to the paper ash and bits of paper in the ash tray, carefully rearranging them like a puzzle, and lost track of the thread of his sentence. It was a note that read:

_ A S  _

_ L HY _

_ BLOOD IS ON _

_ HAND _

_ YOU WILL DIE _

_ F T _

“What does it mean?” Bouc whispered.

Henriksen did not answer. He had seen a ghost. 

_ \------------------------------- _

A few hours later, they were in the salon car, and Henriksen had still yet to speak, turning this new development in the case over and over in his mind. 

“Henriksen? Victor?” Bouc tried for the fourth time in the past hour. Henriksen sighed and finally turned his gaze upon his friend.

“I know the dead man’s real name. He is not Chuck MacIntire, but Charles Shurley.”

Bouc’s eyes narrowed. “I know that name. But from where?”

“If you know that name…” Henriksen sighed again, “Then you have heard of the Leahy family. Their case was all over the news...Colonel Sam Leahy and his wife Eileen, and their little girl Daisy. They were a rare breed--some of the nicest people in the world...until their daughter was kidnapped, and they were both distraught.”

“Didn’t they get a ransom note?” Bouc asked.

“They did...and they paid it, but the child was still murdered, her body found later. Eileen was pregnant at the time, and the grief drove her to have a miscarriage. Neither she nor the baby survived. The loss of his family caused Sam to commit suicide, and the rest of the family--Sam’s mother and brother, along with and Eileen’s sister--seemingly vanished from the public eye. A maid was wrongfully accused of the crime, a woman named Andrea, but she committed suicide the day before she was found innocent--and by the time the authorities realized Charles had murdered young Daisy Leahy, it was too late.”

Bouc was silent.

“It was horrible, horrible news,” Henriksen said, his voice now dangerously soft. “I cannot abide by murder, nor murder without justice, and to kill a child…” He stopped, and then continued, “The note from his ashtray, with all the words in, would read:  _ Daisy Leahy’s blood is on your hands. You will die for it.”  _

Bouc and Henriksen stared at each other, both comprehending this new turn in the case, until they were interrupted by Lucas Kormos.

“Mr. Henriksen, I am so sorry, but Ms. Campbell  _ insisted  _ on speaking with you, and--”

“And I will!” Mary burst into the salon car. “When no one listens to me, I  _ make  _ myself heard. I have been trying to talk to you both! The murderer was in my compartment last night!” 

Henriksen adopted a patient expression. “Can you tell me about this intruder, Ms. Campbell?”

“It was a man, I know that for certain. At first I thought it might be MacIntire--he had propositioned me earlier, and didn’t seem like the kind of man who would take no for an answer. And then the man started rummaging through my luggage, looking at my jewelry...I rang the bell, and he ran. By the time Mr. Kormos got to my car, he was gone.”

“And you’re certain it was a man?” Henriksen asked.

“Absolutely. And! Mr. Kormos checked the communication door between my car and MacIntire’s--it was unlocked, and I definitely locked it. The intruder must have escaped that way, because I double-checked that door after MacIntire’s advances. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead...but that man put me off.”

“You,” Henriksen inclined his head, “May speak of this dead in any way you wish. Have you heard of the Leahy kidnapping case?”

“Of course! Who hasn’t? It was all over the news...terrible, terrible stuff.”

“Well, the killer died last night. MacIntire was Shurley.”

Mary’s face was overcome with a smirk, almost haughty pride, which was not necessarily becoming to her delicate features. “I told you he was a rotten one.”

“Did you know the Leahys?”

“Knew  _ of,  _ never met them. They were…” Mary scoffed. “ _ Rich _ . But do you believe me, about the man?”

“I am only taking accounts, Ms. Campbell.” 

“I have evidence, sir.” Mary produced from her handbag a golden button--much like the one on the all of the train workers’ uniforms.

“Thank you for the evidence,” Henriksen said. “May I ask that you not tell the others about the true identity of our murder victim?”

“Of course.” Mary darted out of the salon car as quickly as she had come.

“She’s going to tell the others,” Bouc whispered.

“Yes.” Henriksen smiled. “I’m counting on it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, thank you for all the love on this :) it's quite different than what I normally write (I'm a real slice of life/fluff kinda gal) but I'm glad y'all are enjoying it! next chapter on Monday ^_^ 
> 
> and I don't know about where y'all live, but we've had terrible snow and ice where I do and things have been closed up all week. my parents lost power, luckily I still have power but my apartment's heater has been broken all week :) very fun! I hope everyone is staying safe!


	4. Lessons Learned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> friendly reminder that this is a) 1934 and b) on a fancy train, so everyone speaks more formally than they might today :)

The next person to question was Kevin Tran, MacIntire's valet. 

“When did you last see your boss?” Henriksen asked.

“About that…” Kevin looked nervous. “I had no idea he was this...murder man. Shurley? Had I known, I would have never gone into his employ.”

Just has Henriksen had predicted: Mary had squealed.

“What did you do for...let us call him Shurley now?” Henriksen asked.

“Mostly delivered his food and drinks, carried things for him. Jack handled finances and correspondence.”

“Did he normally take coffee at night?” 

“No, he was a bit nervous as of late. Last night he found a letter under his pillow and became very agitated. I poured his coffee and then he told me to leave until morning, to bring him his breakfast.” Kevin paused. “If you think I spiked the cup--”

“The cups are stored right-side up,” Henriksen said. “Anyone could have accessed it. And then last night, what did you do?”

“Went back to my car--I’m sharing it with the car salesmen fellow--Asher Lindberg? And slept. We both did.” 

“Hm.” So Kevin’s whereabouts could not be confirmed, if Mr. Lindberg was asleep…. “I think we are done here, Mr. Tran. Bouc, can you send in the next person?”

The next person came into the salon car from the dining car, where the rest of the passengers were assembled, hunched over and muttered prayers--for it was Amara Miller. 

“May I ask what your role in all of this is?” she asked, sitting down across from Henriksen.

“I am here to find justice, find the killer.”

“That is God’s province.”

“Perhaps.” Henriksen held back a sigh. “So, Ms. Miller. You were a nurse, and now you are a missionary? Why did you change professions?”

“I owed it to God. I was not always...good, in my youth.” 

After that, the rest of the questionings swirled together--French professor Benjamin Lafitte espousing the superiority of France and French engineering, while insisting he had never been to America and was on the train for a conference…Asher Lindberg, telling Henriksen of his unruly nature as a child and young adult that was “no more,” and Amara, bemoaning alcohol.

They all had alibis--Amara was out of her room to get an aspirin from Mary Campbell, Asher claiming that, much like Kevin’s story, he was asleep, and Professor Lafitte...had far too much regard for France for Henriksen’s taste.

But there were a few things that stood out to him.

Based on the time Amara said she had gone to see Ms. Campbell, and the fact that she had first mistaken Shurley’s room for the woman’s, Amara was the last person to see Charles alive. 

And Asher Lindberg had mentioned he was a chauffeur before he was a car salesman, and then turned red and promptly shut his mouth.

All clues, but what truth did they lead to? 

Henriksen decided that, in order to piece together more of the puzzle, the next person he needed to talk to was Dean Winchester, the schoolteacher. 

Unlike his other interviewees, Dean seemed almost calm, at ease, as he lounged in the salon car with Henriksen. Dean had ordered whiskey and was swirling it around in his glass as Henriksen studied him. Finally, the detective spoke. 

“I hope you do not mind that we chose a more comfortable meeting spot.”

“While you interviewed everyone else in close quarters?” Dean raised an eyebrow. “You play a good game, detective, making sure to interview everyone in just the right way to put them off of theirs.” 

“Perhaps.” Henriksen offered the other man a smile. “Where were you at our last stop before the avalanche?”

“Asleep, in my car.”

“Which you are sharing with Dr. Novak, correct?”

Dean reddened slightly at the detective’s question (but then again, how could Henriksen know that he was sleeping with the doctor, in both senses of the word? There was no way. And yet--) but nodded. “We’re, um, old friends.” He swallowed.

“Old friends. I see.” Henriksen noted the teacher’s distress at the question. “And what did you think about our dead man?”

“Which one, MacIntire or Shurley?” Dean laughed a little at his own joke, but then sobered up. “If he really is Shurley, then I am quite glad not to have known him.”

“That is a fair opinion to have. Now, you said you and Dr. Novak were old friends?”

“Yes.” There was the distress again. Henriksen thought he knew where it was coming from. 

He lowered his voice. “You do know...despite the law, I myself am not going to judge you? You love who you love.”

“Detective, I don't want to talk about this.” Dean took a gulp of his whiskey.

“Then tell me this.” This was a gamble, but perhaps the teacher’s response would yield some answers. “You know the doctor well. Would he be capable of killing Shurley?”

Dean shook his head, almost emphatically. “Never. Cas--I mean, Dr. Novak, he could never hurt anyone.”

“I see.” 

“Am I free to go?” Dean said, agitated.

“Of course.”

Henriksen watched the other man leave, slamming the car door behind him, and then sat there in silence before lighting a cigarette. Not even a few minutes later, Bouc rejoined him.

“You’ve put Mr. Winchester on his guard--and through him, the doctor. They are old friends, I’m told,” Bouc said.

Henriksen took a drag on his cigarette. He was still pondering the character of the teacher and his relationship with the doctor. He had meant what he told Dean Winchester--the law forbade that kind of love, but they both seemed happy enough, when they were not being vigorously questioned about it. They had found some sort of happiness, amidst a world full of hurt. 

It was better than some could say.

“Victor?” Bouc said, jolting Henriksen out of his reverie. 

“He holds secrets,” Henriksen said. “They both do.”

“But Mr. Winchester does not seem like the type to stab another man.” Henriksen shrugged, and Bouc continued. “What about Ms. Miller, the missionary? She seems like a woman with strength. Or Lindberg...something about him is suspicious. Of course, he  _ is  _ a car salesman...and I have still been unable to get William Webb or his wife to cooperate.”

“They are notoriously private,” Henriksen noted, “And William is, if the press is to be believed, unbalanced.” 

“But you have not come to a conclusion as to who the killer is yet?” Bouc pressed.

“No. I have not spoken to all of the suspects. Come.” Henriksen stubbed out his cigarette into the ashtray on the table, and then stood, beckoning Bouc to follow him out of the salon car. They stopped walking through the train once they were outside Ellen and Joanna Harvelle’s compartment.

“You don’t think the Harvelles did it,” Bouc said, his voice laced with disbelief. 

“In my experience the upper classes are capable of horrific acts. And she commands a strong hand.” Henriksen knocked on the door. 

“Come in,” Ellen called, and Henriksen opened the door. Their compartment was much bigger than the one he shared with Jack Kline. “Set out some tea, Joanna,” Ellen commanded her daughter, motioning for Henriksen and Bouc to sit down.

“We apologize for the intrusion,” Henriksen said, “But we have a few questions we would like to ask.”

“Oh, it’s understandable. There was a murder, certain precautions must be taken.” The socialite shrugged, taking the cup of tea Joanna offered her. Joanna then offered tea to Bouc and Henriksen in turn before joining her mother. 

“What were you doing last night?” Henriksen asked.

“After dinner I went to bed. I was blessed with long life and then cursed me with a bad back to make it miserable. Joanna gave me a massage before she retired.” 

“I see. And you are traveling back to America, where you are from?”

A nod from Ellen.

Henriksen continued this line of questioning. “Have you ever heard of the Leahy family?” 

“Of course. What a horrible tragedy. Joanna, my pocketbook?”

Joanna nodded and handed the small bag to her mother, her blonde curls bouncing. Ellen opened the pocketbook and produced a picture of two people that Henriksen knew to be Sam and Eileen Leahy.

“They were a lovely couple,” Ellen said, and Henriksen could not help but agree. “I was friends with Sam’s mother--an actress. After the family passed, she divorced and hid herself away. Goes by her maiden name, sees no one. And Eileen’s sister--well, rumor had it she married a rich man and is now somewhat of a recluse.”

“A tragedy, to be sure,” Henriksen said softly. Ellen’s eyes were filled with tears. “I feel like I am obligated to tell you, Ms. Harvelle, if you did not already know--that man who was killed last night, Chuck MacIntire--his real name is Charles Shurley.” 

Ellen stared at the photograph, and then looked back up at Henriksen. “I am sure you find it an unwelcome coincidence that I knew the Leahys and now the man who killed their daughter is dead on this train.”

“We are allowed a few coincidences, Ms. Harvelle. Now, Joanna, may I ask you a few questions.”

Joanna nodded.

“Did you see anything strange or unusual last night?”

The young woman cleared her throat. “After I helped Mother to bed, I rang to ask for some warm milk, to help me sleep. A man came, in a conductor’s uniform, but it wasn’t Mr. Kormos. It was a short man, like a child almost…”

“And I presume his coat was missing a button.”

She nodded, shocked.

“We need to look through the luggage, now,” Henriksen said, standing up. “That person I saw running away in the red kimono that no one seems to be able to identify? And the button from the fake uniform? They must be connected. Bouc, your pass key.”

Bouc stood as well. 

“Are you done questioning us?” Ellen asked, exchanging a glance with Joanna.

“For now,” Henriksen said, before striding out of the compartment. He and Bouc dashed down the train, occasionally budging past the other passengers, before getting to the luggage compartment. 

Everyone’s luggage was tagged, and normally Henriksen would have gone through it slowly, methodically, so as to keep the evidence organized, but not today. Instead, he tossed aside suitcase after suitcase, until he came to the last one: his own. 

Henriksen suspected what would be in it before he undid the latches, but even so the shock of scarlet fabric, the elusive red kimono, startled him. He turned his head to look at Bouc, to tell him that the killer was playing with them, before they heard a shriek in the distance. 

It sounded like it belonged to Mary Campbell. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what do y'all think? what's gonna happen next? thanks for reading!!! <3


	5. A Killer's Endgame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for this chapter: there be blood!

After Mary Campbell’s blood-curdling scream, Henriksen and Bouc stared at each other for a protracted moment before bursting into action. Bouc started off first, Henriksen close behind him, running back down the train, the way they had just come to search the luggage. 

Bouc stopped short in front of Mary’s berth, Henriksen right behind him, and when Henriksen pushed past Bouc, the scene was alarming, to say the least. 

Mary was knelt on the floor, shaking and crying, her back to them, a long silver dagger sticking out of it. Blood was seeping around the edges of the dagger, staining her fine yellow dress, and when Henriksen crossed the berth to look at her, her teeth were gritted in pain. 

“Bouc,” Henriksen said sharply, “Please retrieve Dr. Novak.” 

Castiel returned with Bouc a minute later, and moved in to inspect Mary immediately, pushing aside her curls to study the wound.

“The dagger can be removed,” the doctor said after a moment of consideration. “It does not appear to have struck any arteries or vital organs.”

Henriksen nodded.

Watching Castiel remove the dagger was agonizing--not only because of the care that had to be taken, but also because of the tight, pained expression on Mary’s face. When the dagger was out, Castiel handed it to Bouc and took a handkerchief out of his own pocket, pressing it to the cut. 

Lucas, the conductor, brought a first aid kit a few minutes later, and Castiel dressed the wound with the sort of precision that was expected out of his craft. The room was silent, save Mary’s labored breathing. Eventually she was able to sit upright, her eyes wild, terrified.

“Mrs. Campbell,” Henriksen said, slowly, calmly. “Perhaps you can tell me what happened?”

“I--” she took a deep, steadying breath. “I have no idea. I had dropped an earring, so I bent down to pick it up, and the next thing I knew there was a knife in my back.” She shuddered. “Detective, you  _ must  _ find whoever did this.”

“I am trying to.”

“Are you any closer to determining the killer?” Castiel asked. 

“I have my theories,” Henriksen replied, keeping his voice even. In truth, he did have theories, but some of them were vastly unlikely. Two attacks ruled out the lone killer theory, and implicated many, but it did not cleanse any of guilt, not even Mary and Castiel. Henriksen had been a detective long enough, had gained his reputation, by knowing that things were not always as they seemed. 

Shurley himself had not been as he appeared, for he had first appeared as but a businessman, even if he was a businessman with dubious morals. He had proved to be much worse. The same could be said for anyone on this train. 

It was with a heavy conscience that Henriksen went to bed that evening. Tomorrow, hopefully, the train would be allowed to travel again, bringing them closer to their next station and to his deadline--he did not want to give this case over to the police unsolved. There was something strange and delicate at play here. 

Unbeknownst to him, the others on the train did not sleep well, either. Long after Henriksen had drifted off, Jack tossed and turned on the bunk above him. 

In her berth, Mary struggled to sleep past the pain of her new injury--not even a painkiller would help. The news of the stabbing unbalanced William, who clung to Angela. She whispered what sweet things she could to help his nerves, but she could not fix everything. Kevin ended up reading a book to while away the nighttime hours, as did Asher, since he and Kevin were sharing a compartment and the light kept him up. Amara prayed and Benjamin stared out his window at the stars, wishing for a past that could not return. 

Joanna and Ellen stayed up late into the night, talking. Castiel was troubled about the stabbing of Mary Campbell and whispered as such to Dean, the two wrapped up in each other on the bottom bunk in their berth. Lucas could not sleep, for concerns about the engine working once it had finally been dug out of the snow consumed him. 

Only Bouc slept well, and that was because he was Bouc. 

_ \------------------------------------ _

Morning dawned much like the ones before it, cold and clear, only this time there was the promise of the train moving on. 

While the other occupants of the train ate breakfast in the dining car, Henriksen retreated to the luggage car to contemplate the red kimono and the rest of the clues set before him. As he gazed at the fabric in his hand, he heard footsteps behind him. 

Henriksen turned his head to see Dean Winchester walking into the car with two cups of tea. Dean carefully stepped around the luggage before offering one of the cups to Henriksen. 

“How goes the investigation?” Dean asked, taking a sip of his tea and staring out one of the car’s windows into the snow-capped mountains. 

“I believe that I am closer to the truth than before,” Henriksen replied, careful with his words. He was beginning to form an inkling of how Shurley’s murder had occurred. He glanced at Dean, who was still not looking at him, before continuing. “I am sure that you have heard that our victim was not Chuck MacIntire but known murderer Charles Shurley.”

“I had heard that, yes.”

“Did you know the Leahys?” Henriksen asked, but he already knew the answer, and Dean knew that he knew. Still Dean did not look at him, but his jaw clenched, betraying him. “I,” Henriksen said, setting his tea cup on a suitcase, “Think you did, because I think your younger brother was one Sam Leahy, formerly Sam Winchester? You were your niece’s Daisy’s teacher, were you not? Her murderer on the train, a group of other potential suspects--it was perfect, until you got caught.” 

“He didn’t do it alone,” a voice behind them said, and Henriksen whirled around to see Dr. Castiel Novak pointing a gun at him, a fine engraved pistol. 

“Cas,” Dean said, his voice panicked and abandoning all pretense, not even holding back the nickname, “Don’t do this. I can take the blame for this.”

“But you shouldn’t have to.” Castiel cocked the gun, and Henriksen noted that his hands were trembling. “Let me go down for this, Henriksen. You can tell the police I did it alone.”

“I can’t do that,” Henriksen replied, still watching the doctor’s hands. The fact remained that this solution was far too easy. There was no way that Dean Winchester had done it alone, he realized--but there was also no way that this pair were the only killers. In Henriksen’s experience, suspects only offered themselves up this easily if they had something to hide. 

“Cas,” Dean begged, “Don’t do anything rash. He wasn’t going to hurt me.”

“Prison would hurt you.”

“Prison would hurt you, too!” 

There was a moment of silence, and then, Henriksen watched, as if it was in slow motion, the pistol fire. He was frozen to the spot, unable to turn or duck away at the scene before him, at one man willing to kill for the one he loved, and Henriksen braced himself for the inevitable shock of pain and inky emptiness that would follow.

He got neither.

Henriksen almost didn’t feel the bullet that grazed his shoulder, but he looked down at the wound, at the hole in his clothing and the blood now oozing sluggishly out of the wound, and then stared back up at Castiel, who looked down at the gun in his hand, and then back up at the detective. Dean seized Castiel’s hand and dragged him out of the car, leaving Henriksen alone on the floor, bleeding.

Henriksen touched his fingers to his shoulder, watched them come away bloody, and in that moment, he knew who the real killer was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are only two more chapters left! the killer will be revealed in the next chapter, and then the next one is a sort of epilogue :) thank you all for joining this journey!


	6. Whodunnit

By the time Henriksen staggered out of the luggage car, the rest of the passengers had been cleared from the train for safety reasons while the engine was restarted. There was a small chance that it had been frozen, buried underneath the snow for too long, but everyone was fairly confident that the burning coal would compel the engine to move. 

Henriksen had taken his handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his wound, and he was still holding it there as Bouc approached him.

“Where have you been?” Bouc asked. “What happened to your shoulder?”

“There was an accident,” Henriksen replied, “But a welcome one. I have determined the killer. Gather our suspects.”

Bouc marshalled all twelve passengers in the train tunnel, out of the snow and chill, and Henriksen placed himself in front of them, casting his gaze over each of them in turn. They all looked somewhat worse for wear, and nervous.

As they should be.

“I have two theories as to who murdered Charles Shurley, alias Chuck MacIntire, the first less likely than the second,” Henriksen said, pacing in front of the gathered suspects. “My first theory: a lone killer boarded the train, killed Shurley, and left before the avalanche occurred.”

Silence from those assembled.

“However,” Henriksen continued, “I do not believe that is the case. None of you seem quite shocked enough to know that Chuck MacIntire was Charles Shurley, the killer of little Daisy Leahy. And I know why. Each of you has your own unique connection to the Leahy case.”

First, he pointed a finger at Mary. “Mary Campbell, you started going by your maiden name after you divorced your husband, John...but your legal name is still Mary Winchester, making you Dean’s mother.” 

Next, the finger moved to Dean, although he was speaking for the benefit of the others, for Bouc, for the reveal, as he and Dean had already had this conversation. “Dean, you had a brother...his name was Sam, wasn’t it? Sam Leahy, who, quite unusually, took his wife’s last name upon his marriage, to avoid being well-known. Sam Leahy, whose daughter Daisy was kidnapped, whose wife Eileen had a miscarriage in her grief, which led Sam to commit suicide. Before you were a teacher...you looked after Daisy, didn’t you?”

Dean stared at him, the man’s green gaze glassy and hard.

Henriksen moved onto the next suspect.

“Dr. Castiel Novak. You served with Sam Leahy in the war, when he was still Sam Winchester, didn’t you? He was your best friend, and his death shook you...shook you to the core. So many people you have saved as a doctor, a practitioner of medicine....but you couldn’t save him.”

His attention then moved to the diplomatic couple. “Angela...you disguise your Irish accent and hide behind the name of Webb, but your maiden name is Leahy...and you are Eileen’s sister, making your husband, William, her brother-in-law. Once again, another family tie. But the case extends past that.”

This was a painful story, but Henriksen had to tell it, had to get to the bottom of this case. He was a detective, after all. “Some of you worked in the Leahy’s house, did you not? Kevin, you also fought in the war with Sam--and then served as his valet. Joanna, you were the Leahy’s cook--and Ellen, Eileen’s godmother, often seen at the Leahy home. Asher, you were the Leahy’s chauffeur. And Amara, pious Amara…” Amara’s eyes were filled with tears, her knuckles white as she gripped her rosary. “You took your mother’s maiden name of Miller after your brother, Charles, became a gangster. And then you became Daisy’s nursemaid...and have blamed yourself ever since for her kidnapping and death, all because you fell asleep.”

Amara choked out a sob, and Mary reached across the table to lay a gentle hand on the other woman’s arm. 

Henriksen steeled himself. 

“But that’s not all,” he said. “You all remember the case of the Leahy’s maid, Andrea Kormos, wrongly accused of the kidnapping and murder of young Daisy, charges which drove her to suicide. Jack, your father, Jefferson, was the district attorney on that case, the man who wrongfully sent Andrea to prison. Benjamin--or should I call you Benny? You are not a French professor, but a former detective. You were in love with Andrea, and her death wrecked you, because you worked for the local police station at the time...and you could not find the evidence to clear her until after her suicide. You quit. And Lucas, our conductor...your last name is Kormos, is it not? You are Andrea’s brother.”

No one told him he was wrong, because he wasn’t. Henriksen glanced between Castiel and Dean. He would not reveal the other thing he had discovered, about them. That was their secret to keep.

“So,” Henriksen finished, “I propose this theory: All of you took turns stabbing Shurley. You all had a motive, a reason to want the man dead. Mary, you wore the red kimono as a distraction. You had Castiel stab you, because, as a doctor, he knew how to do it non-fatally. And Castiel, when you shot me not even fifteen minutes ago? You were a sniper in the war, and that shot with a simple pistol at close range, you would not have erred. You missed on purpose. All that’s left...is to get away with the murder. Bouc here can lie, but I cannot. So…” Henriksen stepped forward, laying his gun on the table. “Kill me, take the train the rest of the way, Bouc will tell the police of your lone killer theory.”

Mary’s hand reached out to take the gun, and everyone stared at her. She held it out towards Henriksen, who steeled himself. What would she choose? 

The entire gathered group seemed to hold their breath as the snow fell in fat flakes and Mary held the gun out, her blonde locks swirling around her face. Then, in an instant, she brought the gun to her chin and pulled the trigger. 

There was a pop, and Dean screamed, “ _ Mom! No!”  _ and then...nothing. 

Mary brought down the gun, stared at it in confusion. 

Henriksen had never loaded it.

“None of you are murderers,” he said after a moment. “I cannot lie, and so I will simply propose the lone shooter theory to the police.” He knew in his heart that Shurley had deserved to die, for murdering a child--and here was a group of people who had loved that child, and her parents, and had suffered because of his cold-hearted nature.

Henriksen turned back to the train, now ready to leave. 

He had nothing else to say. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bananNANAHHHH!!! (that was supposed to be a dramatic noise) did y'all expect this outcome? 
> 
> the next (and last) chapter will be up on Thursday, and it'll be an epilogue :) thanks for coming along for the ride!


	7. Epilogue: Moving On

The short ride to the next checkpoint for the train in Yugoslavia was a quiet, somber one. Henriksen spent most of it in his car, which Jack promptly left as soon as Henriksen entered. The detective sat on his bunk and stared out the window of the train, finally chugging along again.

Never before had he encountered a case like this. Normally, there was a concrete solution to whatever problem was occurring, something he could pinpoint, an  _ ah-ha  _ moment of sorts. Henriksen solved the crime, turned in the criminal, justice was served. 

But here were twelve people whose lives had been torn apart completely. The murder of Daisy Leahy had not one victim, the little girl, but a dozen, and more if you counted Sam and Eileen. 

It had been both easy and difficult, once he had figured it out and traced all the connections, to look into each passenger’s eyes and tell them what they had done. They had murdered a man, but that man had also taken and murdered a part of each of them. 

Justice, Henriksen reflected, was not always as simple as it seemed. 

When the train made its way to the station, Henriksen had decided to depart. He would take another train or a cab somewhere else. The passengers of the Orient Express deserved a pleasant journey after all their heartbreak, and Henriksen knew that, with him on the train, that could never happen.

Even so, as he walked through the salon car and out of the train, past all of them, Henriksen reflected that perhaps this case would be one that changed his life--and all of theirs.

All of them were free from the ghosts that had haunted them. 

At the end of the car stood Dean Winchester, and as he met Henriksen’s eyes, the detective offered him a small smile. He hoped Dean kept what happiness he had in Castiel. He hoped that all of them could keep the happiness they could find, whatever it was, wherever it was. 

But now it was time to leave. 

Bouc led Henriksen off the train and he stepped onto the platform and into the chill, right smack into a young man in a uniform that indicated he was from the British military. 

Henriksen bade an abbreviated goodbye to Bouc before addressing the soldier.

“Are you Victor Henriksen?” the young man asked.

“Indeed. I assume you have a message for me?”

The soldier nodded. “There’s been a murder, sir, that my superiors would like you to investigate.”

“Where?” Henriksen asked.

“In Egypt, on the Nile.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, that's all, folks! thanks for joining me on this journey, and for your nice comments! this was just a lil thing I wrote for fun and it's been great to see it enjoyed <3
> 
> (also, did anyone get the murder on the bloody nile reference?)


End file.
